


Find Your Way Home to Me

by watts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Barebacking, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Necklace Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watts/pseuds/watts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wants to talk; Natasha doesn't. They find a compromise easily enough.</p><p> <i>or</i></p><p>This is about a necklace, except when it's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Your Way Home to Me

**Author's Note:**

> As I lamented to those who would listen, what was intended to be a sweet ficlet based on Natasha's arrow necklace in Captain America 2 quickly spiralled into something both surprising long and ridiculously porny.
> 
> Thank you so much to my gorgeous beta [execution_empress](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/execution_empress), who so kindly put up with my procrastination and rusty writing skills. Any mistakes you may find are mine alone. 
> 
> Additional thanks to Becky and Viv for cheerleading and [Lauren](http://www.blizzardphoenixtumblr.com) for not only cheerleading but also creating the gorgeous art that's found at the bottom of this fic.

_I could light the night up with my soul on fire,_  
 _I could make the sun shine from pure desire._  
 _Let me feel the love come over me,_  
 _Let me feel how strong it can be._

 

She'd been expecting him for a while by the time she heard someone approaching the door, pulling her handgun from beneath her pillow all the same. The footsteps paused and she knew he was pressing his hand into the recognition system, waiting for his name to pop up on the screen and grant him entrance. Natasha lowered her aim when the sliding door revealed Clint's familiar frame, and he shot her a smile as he headed over to join her on her bed.

 

“The Winter Soldier, huh? Wasn't expecting that one.”

 

“No,” she agreed, replacing the gun and leaning into Clint's warmth as he sat down next to her and twined his arm around her shoulders, “me neither.”

 

“I thought nothing took you by surprise, Agent Romanoff.” She gave him a weary smile, letting her eyes shut as his hand slipped down her side and under the loose hem of her t-shirt, caressing her hip gently.

 

“Don't be a smart-ass, Clint,” she chastised him mildly, all too willing to let his teasing slide as long as his ministrations continued. She'd learned early in their partnership that in such an exchange she always came away with the better deal. He chuckled and twisted his body, dropping his mouth to the shell of her ear and nipping at the sensitive skin in a way he knew all too well would elicit a moan from her. She kept herself passive, content with the progression, or lack thereof, really, of their conversation, practically purring with pleasure when his hand moved down to the juncture of her thighs, palming her through her panties.

 

“Like that, baby?” he asked, his lips falling to the spot behind her earlobe that drove her wild, sucking on the flesh and letting his tongue flicker against it in turn. She finally responded to his efforts, reaching a hand up to his neck to keep his mouth in place. A groan fell from her lips as the slow burn in the low pit of her belly caught fire, wetness pooling against his hand. She didn't need to open her eyes to know there was a smug smile on his face.

 

It had taken a long time for her to react so readily to his touches, a lot of careful encouragement from him necessary before she was able to drop her masks and respond truthfully. It had been years since he'd needed to worry about discerning what was real from what was faked, but it seemed that he still saw every honest reaction from her as an achievement. She remembered the lopsided grin on his face when she'd finally told him that, actually, in all honesty, the way he ran his fingers across the arch of her feet, which had always left her breathing heavily and leaning into him, did absolutely nothing for her. At all.

 

He'd kissed her senseless.

 

She loved him for it.

 

 _That_ had taken even longer, acknowledging that he was more than her partner, more than a friend or a lover. It had been necessary for her lose him in order for her feelings to make themselves known to her fully, and as unwilling as she was to romanticise the events in New York she knew that the push the incident had given her in acknowledging the true nature of their partnership was something that had helped him make peace with what had happened. He'd never forgive himself for what he'd done, even if it hadn't really been him, but she could accept that. She wouldn't ask him to try and forget about it, in the same way that he'd never asked her to stop keeping count of her wrongs.

 

A quirk of his fingers against her cunt drew her from her thoughts, and when she opened her eyes and met his gaze she could see that that had been his intention, a wicked grin crossing his features before she pulled his head toward hers, their lips meeting for the first time since he'd entered the room. There was nothing elegant about it, all tongues and clashing teeth and desperation that belied the languid pace of his actions, but it was exactly what she needed right then.

 

Without removing his lips from hers he unravelled his arms from around her body, ignoring the way her hips bucked slightly in protect at the loss of contact, resituating his hands on the curves of her ass and moving her effortlessly, settling her in his lap. She ground her hips impatiently against his, the hardness of his dick under the jeans he was wearing all too obvious through the thin barrier of her underwear. He tightened his grip on her ass, pushing down and stopping her motions.

 

“бережный, мой маленький паук,” he murmured against her mouth, his forehead leant against hers. _Careful, my little spider._

 

She narrowed her eyes.

 

“Clint-- oh.” She had to stop to draw breath when his fingers unexpectedly brushed her nipple. “Don't tease.”

 

Years ago, that would have been his cue to remark on her own skill as the ultimate tease to leave him a quivering wreck, unable to do much more than moan her name. Those comments used to get under her skin before she understood that they stemmed from his desire to see the real her during these moments, rather than the Widow. Now such remarks were unnecessary, teasing on either part aimed to prolong their partner's pleasure for no more complicated reasons than that.

 

It didn't mean she didn't hate it.

 

She loved it, but she hated it.

 

“Arms up,” he replied, drawing her t-shirt up over her head and leaving her in nothing but her now soaked underwear. The marked unevenness in their states of undress had her unbuttoning his pants, eager for the skin on skin contact that seemed to burn through her flesh.

 

“Easy, Tiger,” he told her with a smile, and his lack of co-operation created a dead end in her attempt to pull the jeans down his legs.

 

She could easily have forced him to move, manhandled him into any position she liked, but despite her frustration she was willing to roll with his determination to take things slow for the moment. She understood his intentions with her departure looming over them, and allowed him to pull her hands away from his hips. He set them on his own chest, her smaller hands sandwiched between his larger ones and the soft fabric of his shirt, the material failing to impede on her ability to feel his heart beat again her palms.

 

She tilted her head up and kissed him, slowly, tortuously, taking her hands back and sliding her fingers into the spiky strands of his hair. It was too short for her to find real purchase, but after half of minute of using her fingertips to rub his scalp his previously intense kiss was sloppy, like he'd forgotten what he was doing.

 

“You're like a dog,” she teased, not for the first time, using her short nails to scratch the skin behind his ear. He leaned into her hand and made small noises of contentment. Reaching up after a moment he took her hand and guided it to his mouth, pressing a soft, open mouthed kiss against her palm, holding it there.

 

Years ago this type of intimacy while they were together would have scared her away, when she was barely able to even keep eye contact for longer than a moment at a time, despite the fact that he was inside her, touching her and sharing breaths between kisses. She'd strived for so long to stop any kind of emotional attachment forming on his part, not willing to even look at her own feelings too closely. It took her a long time to realise that, for him, this thing between them had been emotional from the word go. Before that, even.

 

She'd never appreciated what it must have felt like for him back then, loving someone so much that sometimes breathing felt overwhelming; the frustration that came from feeling them pull away from you. She understood it perfectly in the aftermath of Loki's whirlwind invasion, when Clint had turned on himself, punishing himself brutally for actions no one but he blamed himself for.

 

She hadn't missed the irony in their reversed positions at the time, taking it upon herself to help him the way he had her over the years of their partnership. She'd let herself love him in a way she hadn't realised she'd been repressing; it had been infinitely worth it to see him slowly piece himself back together and come back to her.

 

“Nickel for your thoughts,” he offered gently, the tenderness in his voice and touch somewhat out of place with her half naked and sat astride him.

 

“Please,” she scoffed, “they're worth much more than that.”

 

“Oh really?” He leaned in and nipped at the line of her lower lip, leaving them nose to nose. “Maybe we can reach an agreement.”

 

This time he worked with her to remove his clothing when she tried, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure as their chests pressed tightly together without the barrier of his shirt, lifting his hips to let her pull his pants and boxers down. She ground down against him, hard, his dick twitching beneath her in response.

 

“Fuck,” he groaned, dropping his head down to take her nipple into his mouth, sucking on the sensitive flesh as he rolled the other between his calloused fingers. She bit down on his shoulder, muffling her moan against his flesh as the fingers not occupied by the rosy peak of her nipple slipped down over the soft skin of her stomach. He left no patch of this sensitive part of her body ignored, carefully skimming over the areas he knew to be ticklish, the brush of his fingers light enough that the touch was arousing rather than anything else.

 

“Clint,” her voice was strained, only an inch from a whine. “Clint. Please.”

 

“What do you want, baby?” he asked, pressing his lips against the skin below her clavicle. “Tell me what you want.”

 

“Want you to touch me,” she told him, “want your fingers on me. Your mouth.” His response was to flip them, pressing them flush against one another from their joined mouths to tangled ankles. Natasha rucked her centre against his thigh and he broke the kiss, taking a shuddering breath against her cheek. He dragged his mouth down her neck and traced a pattern with his lips and tongue down her torso, pausing occasionally to glut on various sweet spots before shooting a lascivious grin up at her when she bucked her hips in response to his tongue dipping into her bellybutton.

 

“So beautiful,” he murmured against her, sucking gently on her skin.

 

Two digits rubbed carefully against her slit through her sodden underwear, the touch gentle enough to make her growl impatiently, reaching down to try and peel off the offending article of clothing acting as the last barrier between their bodies. He grabbed her hand, kissing each of her fingers before pinning her hand to the bedsheets. She bit back a sob, feeling like she was about to split apart at the seams with desire as he continued to gently caress her, her head falling back against the pillows beneath her head.

 

She could have shouted with joy – and very nearly did – when he scooted down the bed until he was laying on his belly and slowly licked the length of her cunt, moaning his name against the back of her hand, the other still pinned beneath his at her side.

 

“That's it, Tasha, c'mon,” he said, nuzzling at her clit with his nose. “Fuck, babe, you're so wet. You wet for me, Tasha? Taste so good, gonna eat your pussy. Gonna make you come on my tongue until you scream, you want that?”

 

In the hazy memories of her encounters with the Red Room she remembered hating it when her marks talked dirty at her, muttered all the things they wanted to do to her body against her skin. With Clint it was a completely different experience. His words only ever served to turn her on even more, the promises a string of benedictions rolling off his tongue.

 

“You want that, Tasha? Want me to eat your pussy?” He hooked two fingers under the waistband of her panties, looking up at her expectantly. He always waited for her to tell him what she wanted, wouldn't do anything without her explicit permission. She nodded, not trusting her own voice at that moment, biting down on her bottom lip as he dragged the soaked cotton down over her thighs, bending her leg at the knee to unhook the underwear from around her ankle.

 

Finally, _finally_ he ducked his head and drew her clit into his mouth without preamble, sucking on it until she cried out, stifling the sound against her hand.

 

“No, baby, don't,” he begged, raising his head to look at her. “I wanna hear you. Please.” It could have been the pleading look in his eye, or it might have been the fact that she could see her own wetness glistening around his mouth even after only a moment at her cunt, but she moved her hand from her mouth and settled it on his neck, pushing his face back down onto her.

 

He took his hand from her wrist where he had been pinning it to the sheets and hooked it under the curve of her ass, holding her tightly against his mouth as he swirled his clever tongue around her clit and made her squirm beneath him, unable to draw herself away from the intense feelings he drew from her. She stopped trying to control her cries as he slipped his left index finger inside her, and the groan he let out sent vibrations through her that almost left her orgasming on the spot. She bucked her hips when he withdrew the digit just as quickly, but was soon teetering back on the edge again when he replaced it with his tongue, dipping it into her as the rough pad of his thumb rubbed her clit.

 

“God,” she groaned, pressing both hands into his hairs as she felt that spring in her lower belly tighten, knowing her orgasm was fast approaching if he kept up his actions. “Clint, _please_.”

 

“Let go, Tash,” he told her, licking a long stripe down her folds, “come for me, baby, go on.” He pushed two fingers into her once more, curving them to find her g-spot. With that she was gone, her hips jerking up against his face as burning white heat engulfed her entire body. She felt her thighs tighten around his head instinctively and made a conscious effort not to suffocate her lover, one of his hands gently pushing one leg down towards the sheets. She was still clamped around his fingers as her senses cleared, her body now otherwise completely lax and spreadeagled across the bed.

 

“Nng.”

 

“I'm sorry?” He looked highly amused at her nonsensical sigh, not even bothering to dodge the lacklustre smack to his bicep. Natasha managed to prop herself on her elbows and from this angle could see that he was palming himself, clearly unable to hold back any more. She used the hand still wrapped around his head to draw him up the bed, licking the taste of herself out of his mouth until he moaned, rubbing the tip of his cock against her slick folds.

 

“Jesus, Tasha. Can I fuck you?”

 

“I'll hurt you if you don't.”

 

Clint kissed her with an open mouth as she reached down and guided him inside her, not stopping until he bottomed out inside her, his balls against her thighs and not an inch of space between them. They stilled for a moment, eyes meeting as she took in the warm sensation of being completely full of him.

 

“I love you, Tasha,” he told her quietly, kissing her chastely before he began to rock his hips, slipping one hand around her ribs to hold her to him as her head fell back at the sensation. Pushing her hips up towards him she met him half way through his thrusts, grasping at his shoulder and kissing him again. Her ankles came up to lock around the backs of his thighs, driving him into her faster.

 

“Fuck,” she panted, sliding a hand down between them to rub at her clit. He let his rhythm fall uneven as he snagged a pillow from next to her head, manoeuvring it under the small of her back so that his groin pressed tightly against the bundle of nerves.

 

“Better?” he asked. Her responding groan elicited a cocky grin and he picked up speed, holding his weight off her with one arm. After only half a dozen thrusts the new angle sent her careening into orgasm, biting down into the flesh of his shoulder.

 

She was sure she'd blacked out for a moment, but when she came back to her senses he was still thrusting inside her, pressing warm kisses to the side of her face and brushing bright locks from her sweaty forehead. He looked up and smiled widely when he saw her open eyes, kissing her roughly with teeth scraping her lip.

 

“Я тебя люблю,” she said against his mouth, keeping her eyes on his. _I love you._

 

“Я тебя люблю,” he repeated, groaning against her as she tightened the grip of her calves against his thighs, drawing him deeper inside her.

 

“Come on, Clint,” she urged, pleased when he picked up his pace, “fuck me, harder.”

 

His head dropped to her breast, drawing the nipple into his mouth and grazing over it with his teeth, biting down almost painfully when she squeezed her muscles tightly around him. His rhythm feel into uneven jerks as he came apart on top of her, the arm holding him off her body giving way under him and his heavy weight settling on her. He moaned deeply into her ear and she shivered, wrapping a hand around his neck, holding him against her.

 

After a moment he started laving wet kisses against her jaw and she hummed tunelessly in pleasure.

 

“Damn, Nat,” he said, propping himself up above her and brushing his thumb against the apple of her cheek. “You sure you've got to go tomorrow?”

 

His words reminded her of the half-hearted attempt he'd made to talk to her about her upcoming mission when he'd first entered her quarters. She didn't want to answer him.

 

He leant his forehead against the tangled mess of her hair, letting them rest in comfortable silence for a moment before trying again.

 

“When do you leave to meet Rogers?” he asked after a minute or two, letting his fingers track lazy patterns up and down the column of her spine.

 

“Flight's at 0830. Sitwell's coming to co-ordinate, Blake and Harker as back-up. Couple more I don't know, I think.”

 

“Lucky you,” he joked, and let the hand that wasn't rubbing slow circles on the small of her back move from her cheek to her jaw, thumb ghosting along the line of her lower lip. She shuddered, and figured she should be embarrassed by the effect he could have on her with such a minuscule motion. She wasn't.

 

“Mm.” She manoeuvred herself from underneath him, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and padding towards on the bathroom on feet that were only a little unsteady.

 

He joined her after a moment and thankfully didn't try and bring her trip up again as they cleaned up. She pushed her hair off her forehead in front of the mirror and grimaced at sweaty state of her face. “Need a shower.”

 

Clint looked at her leaning heavily against the sink and smirked. “I'll run you a bath,” he offered, pressing a brief kiss down on her shoulder and kneeling by her tub. She didn't bother arguing, just started pulling out a few of the toiletries she'd need in the morning while he drew her bath.

 

From a very early point in their partnership Clint's tendency to fall into the role of mother hen had always amused her. The first time it'd reared its head, when she'd come back to her quarters from the med centre with gauze strapped across a bullet wound in her arm and found him there – already having unpacked her bag and started sorting out something for her to eat – she'd been angry, unwilling to take his help when she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. It'd taken her a while to understand that his attempts to look after her came not from any belief that she couldn't do it for herself, but rather his own feeling of helplessness, whether he had been unable to stop her getting injured or witnessed an encounter hitting a little too close to home for her. He took it upon himself to try and take care of her in whatever way he could to make up for whatever way he felt he'd let her down. Now, she tolerated (appreciated, really) his efforts.

 

She may have fallen in love with him in an evening spent curled in his bed, letting him read Lermentov to her in her mother tongue. He'd claimed to be unaffected by it, but she'd woken up to find that he'd kept reading after she'd fallen asleep, the point she'd dozed off at dog-eared some 50 pages back.

 

When the water was ready he stayed sat down next to the tub as she slipped in, one of his elbows resting on the side and his chin resting on his arm as she revelled in the feeling of the warm water on her tired body.

 

She knew that he had questions he wasn't asking her after she'd twice avoided the subject and eventually decided to bring it up herself.

 

“Steve's expecting to get his friend back out of this mess. 'Bucky'.” The name felt strange on her tongue: even though her memories of the Red Room were vague at best she knew that the Winter Soldier had never gone by that name in the time she'd known him.

 

“And you don't think he's there anymore,” Clint replied. It was more a statement than an question.

 

“No.”

 

“...We got you back, though. In the end. Couldn't it work the same way for Barnes?”

 

From the corner of her eye she saw that he was smiling indulgently as she considered her toes, sticking out of the water at the other end of the tub, her brow furrowed as she decided how to respond to him.

 

“You never 'got me back', Clint.” He looked over at her, eyes showing his confusion. “I don't remember what I was like in the Red Room, really, and I know even less about who I was before. I don't even know what my name was. You didn't recover some lost daughter of the Red Room, you took me and helped me become a new person.” She spoke quietly, closing her eyes as he reached his hand over to push his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck. She wasn't talkative by nature, even with him (though more often than not he talked enough for the two of them), and the few sentences were something of a long monologue for her.

 

“Nat--”

 

“Don't, Clint, it's fine,” she said brusquely, cutting him off before he could speak. “It doesn't matter. I just don't know how Steve will deal with the fact that the only person who could fully understand a lot of what he's gone through most likely won't have any idea who he is.”

 

Clint was quiet for a minute, considering her words carefully.

 

“You're probably right. It doesn't mean you can't help him, though. Both of them, really. Maybe you won't get Rogers' friend back, but there's nothing stopping you getting the man out of the monster.”

 

He always knew the right thing to say. Damn him.

 

“Stop acting so wise, bird boy,” she quipped, flicking water over the side of the bathtub at him. He laughed and the spell was broken, the tender moment over. “Get in, dummy.”

 

“So much name calling, you're killing me.”

 

“Come on,” she told him, beckoning at him with one hand. “You're not getting back into my bed this much of a sweaty mess whatever, so either get in or have a cold shower when I'm done. Or sleep in your own bed. Your choice.”

 

He stood up and she scooted forward, letting him settle behind her and draw her back against him with one broad forearm, the water rippling in front of them.

 

“Mm,” she murmured, covering his arms with her own and running her fingertips across the skin stretched over corded muscle. “Now you can wash my hair.”

 

“Yes, majesty,” he grumbled, taking the shampoo bottle from the shelf behind them once he'd wet her hair. “Should've know there was an ulterior motive to getting me in here.”

 

“Always is when it comes to me,” she replied lightly as he worked his fingers deftly through her hair with well-practiced ease. They were quiet for a minute as she enjoyed the massage.

 

“I love you, Tasha. Doesn't matter that you don't know who you were. You're Natasha now and I love you.”

 

She didn't have the words to respond, just ducked her head a little as he sluiced warm water over her soapy curls.

 

She never dwelled on her past, not really, not past the nightmares of burning buildings and a woman's screams that she refused to analyse; her memories prior to waking up in the SHIELD medical centre were hazy at best, the only concrete knowledge of her past came from recognition she felt when she read about things in her file. She knew the details of the men from the Red Room, the dates and locations of her most horrific kills and the identities of most of her marks. She just didn't know the basics of her own life.

 

What was her mother's name? What did her father do for a living? Did she have siblings? When was her birthday?

 

(Of course, not long after she'd joined SHIELD the birthday problem had been solved. Clint had suggested she pick her own once he found out that she didn't have one and turned up outside her quarters on November 22nd, the date she'd chosen at random from a calender, with a birthday cake in hand.)

 

The secretive state of the Soviet Union when she was young coupled with the work of the Red Room meant that there was little chance of her ever recovering much about her childhood, but that was okay, really. When she and Clint talked about his own, in the protective darkness of nighttime, she knew she'd rather be unaware of the truth in case it wasn't good. It was more comforting to occasionally fall back on the idea that her parents had loved her, that her home life had been happy.

 

Clint pressed his face into her wet hair once he'd washed conditioner out of it, returning his arms to their position around her and squeezing her against him.

 

“Gonna miss you, Nat,” he told her, voice muffled.

 

“Don't be sappy, Barton,” she warned, pinching the skin of his arm between her nails.

 

“Don't pretend you won't miss me, Tash,” he said, scrabbling at her sides and laughing when she let out an uncharacteristic squeal, elbowing him hard. He was, as far as she was aware, the only person to know she was ticklish. While her death threats seemed to be enough to stop him telling anyone else about it they did nothing to deter him from actually making use of his knowledge, especially when he felt the need to draw her out of her own head.

 

“Of course I won't miss you. I'm only with you for the sex,” she replied, tone serious. He chuckled, the noise low against his ear. It said a lot about the state of their relationship that she could joke about it, really.

 

“Yeah?” he asked huskily, his hand moving slowly from her waist down to the soft skin below her navel. His mouth dropped to her neck, teeth worrying the sensitive flesh behind her ear.

 

“Yeah,” she agreed. As his fingers parted her folds and began stroking she kept her own on his forearm, feeling the play of muscles flex as he explored her. His actions were far from the slow torture of his teasing earlier, pausing to circle her clit a few times before he pushed one finger and then another into her, grinding the heel of hand against her.

 

She was already disgustingly sensitive after her previous orgasms and it didn't take much to bring her over the edge once more. A few well timed quirks of his thick fingers in her cunt along with the feel of his palm against her clit left her slack against his chest as she came, her head tipped back against his shoulder.

 

“Well now, princess, I reckon that must be some kind of record,” he said smugly, sucking her earlobe into his mouth, scraping his teeth against the delicate flesh. She poked him in the ribs.

 

“Not princess,” she mumbled. His laugh vibrated through her and he cupped her chin, turning her face to his and kissing her lackadaisically, tongue wrapping around hers. She could feel that his fingers had started to wrinkle from the water, so once she was sure her legs would support her she stood to get out of the tub.

 

“Pretty good view,” he remarked, and she turned her head to see that he'd propped his arms of the sides of the tub, leaning back and staring at her with a look that could only be describes as lecherous.

 

“Perv,” she said, shaking her head as she stepped out onto the tiled floor. With a rush of water he pulled himself up and onto the floor next to her, grabbing a towel from the rail and wrapping her in it. He tucked one corner tightly under the edge to keep it in place and kissed her forehead, leaving his mouth there for a moment before reaching for another towel for himself. She stared as he wrapped his own around his waist, and a lopsided grin crossed his face.

 

“See something you like, sweetheart?”

 

God, she loved him.

 

“Don't call me sweetheart,” she told him instead of kissing him silly, walking back out into her small bedroom.

 

Her quarters at SHIELD only comprised of a room with a bed small enough to make her glad she'd gotten over her issues with cuddling, a dresser and a small bedside table along with her bathroom, but it was infinitely preferable to the spacious apartment Stark had offered each of them in his tower after New York. When she was needed she would work with the other members of the initiative, but neither she or Clint were inclined at this point to shack up with them. They might have worked well during the fight against Loki but it didn't change the fact that their comrades were a petulant billionaire, an unstable scientist, an actual norse god and a soldier whose last battle had been during World War Two. Rogers she could deal with but Banner still left her uneasy and nothing could have made her spend any more time than absolutely necessary with Tony Stark.

 

Clint's own quarters were identical but a quarter miles stretch of corridor from her own, a dozen other agents between them. It wasn't a particular arduous journey but not one she particularly enjoyed at certain points in the day – or night, more often – when it was quiet enough to feel conspicuous with only a handful of other people around to see her. Now they mostly avoided the issue by starting the night together rather than creeping into each other's rooms in the middle of it, but sometimes she wondered about how nice it would be to have a space that was not just hers but theirs.

 

She knew Clint wondered about it too, and had actually heard him once asking Peters, another agent who had Sitwell handled, about his shared quarters up on the sixth floor. They were rare, only for the handful of SHIELD agents who openly shared their relationship with the senior members of the organisation, but it was common knowledge that there were more free than filled. The fraternisation policies at SHIELD were something of a grey area, mostly bluster to scare the green agents from fucking each other right off the bat and creating awkward situations that could translate into dangerous ones in the field. Fury certainly wasn't going to play matchmaker with his best agents, but she also knew he was aware of she and Clint's own relationship and doubted there would be any protests from the powers above to the two of them taking one of the spaces as their own.

 

She didn't think he knew that she'd overheard his conversation with Peters, over breakfast in the cafeteria shortly after the other man had moved in with his partner, but she waited for him to bring it up with her.

 

He still hadn't.

 

Maybe she would.

 

Clint never took the first step with anything when it came to their relationship. Sometimes it was because he didn't want to push her, make her feel uncomfortable. Sometimes she thought it stemmed from his notion that he was more committed to it – this – _them_ – than she was. She wanted to correct him, but didn't know the right words.

 

She understood his worries. On occasion she still found herself flinching at his touch when it was soft and intimate, or automatically going to lie when he asked a question she didn't like.

 

She was trying, though. It was getting better. She leant into his touch more than she leant away, now.

 

Progress.

 

Tossing her now largely superfluous towel onto the bed Natasha pulled open the bottom drawer of her dresser, the left hand side of the space silently reserved for Clint's clothing. She pulled out a dark t-shirt and slipped it over her head, pulling her damp hair out of the collar and leaving the drawer open in case he wanted to put something on.

 

Clint smiled at the sight of her in his shirt as she pulled back the bed covers and slid in; she knew he loved seeing her in his clothing, it satisfying some caveman urge deep within him that yearned to see her as _his_ , something Clint would never openly admit to but she was happy to indulge in this small way. He took out a faded pair of boxers and stepped into them, taking up her discarded towel and arranging himself next to her. He rubbed the towel gently over her damp hair and she all but purred as his fingers scratched her scalp through the soft material. With the last excess water wrung from her locks he carefully threw the towel onto the carpet by the bathroom door, laying down on his side next to her. Natasha reached up and flicked off the lights, the room bathed in darkness as she curled herself into his side.

 

It was quiet for a moment, the only sounds coming from the rustle of covers as they arranged themselves comfortably. They ended up with his chest pillowing her head, one hand carding gently through her hair, their legs tangled together.

 

“I'm sorry you have to do this alone.”

 

“Rogers will be there, Clint. It'll be worse for him than it will be for me.”

 

“You know what I mean. I don't know why...” he trailed off. They both knew why Clint hadn't been assigned as part of the team to head out to Washington D.C with Natasha in the morning. The target was too personal, and while Coulson would have known both of them well enough to include Clint, to know that his presence would be likely to do more good than harm, Sitwell apparently had a different view on how to handle such issues.

 

Sometimes she missed Phil so much she didn't know how to deal with it.

 

She went to tell him it was fine, that she'd be okay and that it was nothing she couldn't handle, but she bit back her words. This was Clint, and they weren't supposed to keep anything from each other. She took a breath.

 

“I wish you were coming with me.” His eyes found hers in the darkness, taking her hand in his own and squeezing it.

 

“Just say the word, Nat. Even if I can't get Sitwell to see sense I'll fly out commercial. 'Specially for you. Say the word.”

 

“You hate flying commercial.”

 

“I do.”

 

“...I need to do this myself though, I think. He's the last one left, as far as I know; the men are all dead, most of the girls too. The ones that aren't have been off the radar long enough to be as good as. So that just leaves Winter. He wasn't like the others. He didn't want to hurt us, not all the time anyway. Sometimes...sometimes I thought he seemed just as sad as I was.”

 

She couldn't remember it properly, of course, just flashes filled in by notes she'd read in her file. Memories of the Winter Soldier's hidden humanity may well have been just another part of the brainwashing they'd inflicted so often in the Red Room, but for whatever reason she was certain it was real. The image of mournful eyes meeting hers across a floor of bodies filled her mind. She hadn't seen him after that.

 

“You were right, what you said earlier. Maybe we won't get Barnes back, but it would certainly help my ledger if I can help Winter.” His thumb rubbed small circles on her hand. He didn't tell her not to worry about her ledger, or that she shouldn't feel any obligation to help a man who'd contributed to the effective destruction of her childhood. He knew her too well.

 

“Sure you don't want me to come? I could hide out in your bed; you could come find me if things get rough. Sex therapy's a thing, right?” She snorted. It was an appealing suggestion. “Love you, Nat,” he told her quietly, shutting his eyes and relaxing his grip on her hand.

 

“Love you, too,” she replied, watching his face to see him smile at her words before she lay her head back on his chest.

 

She was drifting off, not far from sleep when she heard him speak again, much quieter. He probably thought she wouldn't hear him.

 

“I'll be here when you come back. Just come back, Tasha. We can do the rest together.”

 

She let sleep claim her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The flight out to D.C was short, touching down less than an hour after she'd got on the small jet with the handful of other operatives coming with her to meet Rogers. They'd immediately headed off to scope out the area, leaving Natasha the opportunity to spend a few hours sitting outside a small cafe, a book held in one hand and a coffee in the other. The book's pages turned every few minutes but she didn't read a word, her attention fixed on the building a few hundred yards away they'd identified as the most likely base for the HYDRA set-up they were looking for.

 

By the time Sitwell texted her a meeting point she'd identified half a dozen of the HYDRA operatives affiliated with the sightings of the Winter Soldier. She was glad she hadn't been dragged out on a wild goose chase, but a small part of her had been hoping they'd been wrong, that they'd have to return to the helicarrier and start the search over. She wasn't sure she was ready to face the Winter Soldier, not yet, but it looked like that was what was going to happen.

 

When she arrived at the address Sitwell was waiting with one of the other field agents whose name eluded her.

 

“Sightings?”

 

“Not him, but plenty of the others. Seems likely he's around here somewhere.”

 

“Meeting with Rogers at 1400. I'll send you the address.” Sitwell handed her a set of keys. “14b.”

 

Natasha was grateful that Sitwell had given her her own place, but when she opened the door and saw the dank apartment waiting for her her good spirits fell a little. They weren't set to be here long but depending on the sophistication of the HYDRA operation she could still be based here for several weeks, and the peeling wallpaper and cramped shower actually made her miss her SHIELD quarters, even with its blank walls, plain bedcovers and sterile air.

 

Still, she'd stayed in worse, much worse, so she pulled herself together and tested out the shower, pleasantly surprised by a fairly powerful stream of water, even if it was tepid. She pushed the memory of her bath the previous evening to the back of her mind and undressed, snatching her shampoo and conditioner bottles from her pack.

 

When she was clean and dressed in jeans and a plain tank top she looked at her hair in the mirror with a critical eye. She'd been growing it out since New York and it almost reached her shoulders now, and while it wasn't as much of a nightmare as the ridiculous extensions she'd had in working with Stark it still took more taming than before. She pulled a brush through the stubborn tangles and tugged on one of the curls that framed her face. Clint always like to do the same, teasing her about the ringlets, calling them springs. After a moment's consideration she reached for the straighteners she'd packed in her bag, switching them on and setting them on the side to heat up. Her curls were for Clint.

 

Since when had she been living in a romance movie?

 

Her phone buzzed from its spot on the bed and Natasha picked it up, seeing that Sitwell had forwarded her an address only a few blocks from the apartment. She set it down once the straighteners beeped at her, indicating they were ready for use. It didn't take long for her to iron out every kink in her hair, leaving it poker straight and fanning over her shoulders.

 

The bathroom was still steamy from her shower and she had to take her towel to the mirror before she could see anything in it. She only had a half hour before she needed to leave, but her last preparations wouldn't take long. She sorted out her make-up, and was just going through the bag to look for her eyebrow pencil when her fingers brushed against a fine chain. Frowning, she took hold of it, figuring she'd maybe left a necklace or bracelet in there from a job a while back.

 

When she managed to pull it free from the bag and saw what it was her breath caught in her throat.

 

The necklace was very plain, not one of the extravagant bejewelled pieces she wore when she wanted something to distract a mark. A silver chain held together by a small arrow pendant.

 

When had Clint found this? What had he been thinking? She brushed her thumb against the arrow, gnawing on her lip. He'd never given her anything like this before: the closest thing to a romantic gift he'd ever presented her with up to this point being a set of knives he'd picked up in Osaka for her a few years back, when he'd noticed their resemblance to a pair she favoured among her own set.

 

Not that that hadn't been romantic, but that was neither here nor there.

 

She closed her palm around the chain and braced herself against the sink, forcing herself to meet her own eye in the mirror. The necklace had been tucked into the inside pocket of her make up bag. Why had he hidden it there? Why not give it to her last night, or this morning before she'd left?

 

She knew why. This way, if she chose not to accept it, neither would have to say anything about it; no awkward face to face rejection if it was too much, not what she wanted it. Her heart hurt at the idea of him worrying over it.

 

It wasn't a necklace, not really. It wasn't a gift, or a trinket, or a token. It was a question, or maybe several: the ones that hung in the air between them when she knew he was holding back on her.

 

Will you take it? Can I give you my heart? I can't wear it on my sleeve but I can hang it from your neck; is it safe there?

 

 _Yes_ , she replied silently, looping the chain around her neck and shutting the clasp deftly. _One day I will give you my own, I promise_.

 

She could give him a little of it now.

 

Her eyebrow pencil long forgotten she picked her phone up off the bed, tapping out a message.

 

**To: m.hill**

**From: n.romanoff (13:28)**

Hypothetically speaking, how would senior field agents go about requesting new quarters? On the sixth floor?

 

**To: n.romanoff**

**From: m.hill (13:30)**

Do you have time to be texting me right now? My schedule says you're meeting with Sitwell and Rogers at 1400.

 

**To: m.hill**

**From: n.romanoff (13:33)**

Not helpful.

 

**To: n.romanoff**

**From: m.hill (13:36)**

I'll look into it. We'll sort it out when you get back. Stay focused on the mission at hand for the time being.

 

Natasha rolled her eyes but didn't bother to respond to Hill's message. She scrolled through the contacts on her phone until she found the one she was looking for.

 

**To: c.barton**

**From: n.romanoff (13:38)**

Good news: Sitwell didn't make the mistake of shacking me up with the junior agents.

Bad news: The place makes the hotel in Abidjan seem like a real five star place.

 

**To: n.romanoff**

**From: c.barton (13:39)**

Sounds almost as bad as the helicarrier quarters.

 

Her fingers hesitated over the screen. There were a lot of things she wanted to say to him, wanted to know how to articulate the way he seemed to be able to do almost instinctively.

 

I'm sorry I can't show you how much I love you as easily as I want to.

 

I'd give you my heart if I knew how.

 

Люблю тебя всем сердцем, всей душою. _I love you with all my heart and soul._

 

She couldn't say any of those things now, not yet. She could take a step in the right direction, though.

 

She wrote out her reply, looked at her screen for a moment and touched the cool weight of the arrow against her chest.

 

She hit send.

 

**To: c.barton**

**From: n.romanoff (13:43)**

I've heard those new shared quarters are nicer. Want to look into them when I'm back?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _If your sky is falling,_

_Just take my hand and hold it,_

_You don't have to be alone;_

_I won't let you go._

  


**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics at the top are from Higher Love by James Vincent McMorrow; those at the bottom come from I Won't Let You Go by James Morrison.


End file.
